


Taking Great Pains

by warcatscat



Series: The Felling of False Idols [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley's Internal Monologue, Follow up, Gabriel is a Prick, Heavy Angst, I beat him up again, I did it again guys, I'm so sorry, M/M, Mourning, Please Read False Idol First, character comes back to life, happy ending eventually, lots of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warcatscat/pseuds/warcatscat
Summary: Gabriel's beating of Crowley, and a lot of internal monologuing. A semi-sequel to False Idol.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Felling of False Idols [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678306
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love False Idol too much to leave it be. I've had this in blurbs sitting in my WIPs folder since I posted the last chapter of False Idol, and it is FINALLY freed from my brain and out in the world!!! Which also means it's unbeta'd so please don't @ me.
> 
> I love you all. <3

Demons are naturally accustomed to pain; they were “born” out of a lake of boiling sulfur, and many of their first actions had been to hiss, and spit, and scream their agonies into the world. They’ve sewn misery and discord since the Beginning. 

Crowley often preferred to avoid direct pain, both receiving it and inflicting it, but he was no stranger to the concept. 

He could remember how much it hurt to breathe. The massive power hidden just beneath deceptively human hands. His left wing being torn from its socket with the effort of tearing a tissue from its holder. Demands shouted at him from one he would gladly have sold to Satan himself for much less than one corn chip. Raw fear in the pit of his semi-existant stomach, wondering where Aziraphale was; was his Angel dead? Was fighting worth it if his Angel had already lost?

_“How did you do it!? How did you write those sigils!? How do we erase them?”_

Caught off guard didn’t even _begin_ to describe how Crowley was feeling in that moment. Archangel Gabriel, holding one arm tightly behind the demon’s back and exuding raw, angry _power_. The demon hissed, as loud as he could, and made a desperate kick backward, barely nicking the archangel’s shin. That earned a fist in his hair, yanking him into a backbend to meet Gabriel’s eyes from behind. 

“I don’t appreciate being made to wait. I want to know what you two _morons_ did, and I want to know _now._ ” 

Crowley growled and fought; as if Gabriel was worthy of being answered, for all the shit he had put Aziraphale through. And besides, he and the angel had been together all week; with Aziraphale being anxious about _something_ , and Crowley hanging around trying to comfort his angel without being obvious about it.

Gabriel released Crowley’s hair, and in one snap motion slapped the demon across the jaw, all but breaking the joint, and knocked Crowley off his feet. The demon landed hard on his left elbow and side, scrambling for purchase along the slick floor. _Where was he anyway? Last he could remember was stumbling out of a pub after causing a little late-night mischief_. 

The archangel pinned Crowley by stepping on an ankle, applying a slow, twisting force like a child grinding ants under his shoe.

“Tell me. The sooner you spit it out, the sooner I kill you.” He said with a false smile. 

“Why the ssshit would that make me want to tell you anything?” Crowley spat. He realized his poor choice of words only milliseconds too late before he felt his ankle snap in half.

“So you _do_ know.” Gabriel’s tone became dark and gleeful. “I think it’s time you started begging for your life.” He began to put more pressure on Crowley’s broken ankle, eliciting a long hiss of pain from the demon. When the serpent refused to answer further, Gabriel gave him a strong kick in the ribcage. “Answer me!” 

Drops of black ooze slipped between Crowley’s lips, and he could feel his corporation’s bones breaking under pressure, but the fact that Gabriel’s force was enough to damage his Demonic Essence was _Bad_. 

Gabriel reached down towards Crowley’s chest, and the serpent made his last possible effort for escape. He punched out with as much strength as he could, jamming the archangel’s nose and surprising him enough to scramble away. There was enough adrenaline in Crowly’s body to help him stand and largely ignore the pain, but getting to his feet was all the time Crowly had before Gabriel grabbed him once again, this time by his throat. 

“I don’t like tricks, demon. I don’t like my time to be wasted. And I’ve had enough with trying to be merciful. If you won’t tell me, you’ll suffer.” 

With a squeeze of his throat, Gabriel forced Crowly to show long serpentine fangs. One hand in Crowly’s hair held his head steady while the other tugged with the full might of a pissed off Archangel in an effort to pull one free, as if looking for a trophy. 

His fangs were manifestations of his true form, and having them tugged on _hurt_. And, with Gabriel this close to his face, with one hand in his mouth, Crowley decided a little more spite wouldn’t hurt. The Serpent bit down, as hard as his damaged jaws would allow, and twisted his head. In a moment of success Crowly would likely later regret, he heard a delightful pop from the archangel’s wrist, and a grunt of pain from the smug feather-brain’s mouth. 

Gabriel yanked his hand back, more in surprise than pain, and Crowley took the opportunity to strike again. He kicked as hard as he could manage, aiming his knee at Gabriel’s stomach. There was no use aiming below the belt; Gabriel didn’t bother to manifest sensitive bits, seeing them as a sign of weakness. Crowley’s knee struck perfectly, causing Gabriel to double over and let out a low huff of air. 

However, the Archangel managed to grab Crowley’s leg in the process, and pulled the Serpent from his precarious balance onto the floor once more. This time, Gabriel left no opportunities to fight; landing heavily on Crowley’s Chest with his full weight on both knees. Crowley saw stars dance around his field of vision, and distantly heard his sunglasses clatter away into the either. 

He was mildly aware of Gabriel dragging him somewhere, tossing him onto his stomach and forcing his wings back out. The long appendages relaxed as best they could in the foreign position, and Gabriel wrapped a hand firmly around the base of one. 

“I’m going to ask nicely, one more time. _How_ did you ward the field?”

There was no convincing the Archangel. There would be no appeasing him. Crowley gurgled around the blood in his mouth for a minute, trying desperately to think past the fog. He was the Damned Serpent of Eden! He _had to_ slip out of this. His life (and more importantly, Aziraphale’s) depended on it. 

“I didn’t Gabriel. I was with Angel all day.” He said quietly, almost begging the other to have mercy. 

Gabriel grabbed for a chunk of soft, well-kept hair, just above his right ear, and _yanked_. Crowley screamed, arching back and feeling a chunk of his scalp rip free, his ear quickly becoming wet with more Ichor. 

“Gabriel, _please_ . I _swear_ I'm telling you the truth. I didn’t do _anything_! Neither did Aziraphale! We went to get Coffee--!”

A fist appeared once more in his hair, slamming his face forward into the floor and causing his nose to _crunch_.

“I’m sick of this. If you won’t talk, I sure hope for your sake your boyfriend will.” Gabriel said lowly, more to himself than to Crowley. He held Crowley’s squirming form as the demon fought with every last drop of strength he had, before he felt something sharp prick the base of his neck, and things went blissfully soft.

* * *

He came to on a different floor; a much more familiar one. His first thought was something along the lines of ‘ _aw, shit. Angel’s gonna be pissed I spilled his nice calligraphy ink all over the carpet._ ’ 

His Second thought, slightly more coherent and tinged with pain, ‘ _That’s not ink._ ’

There was pain around the edges of what he could feel, but everything was sort of glowing, and Crowley was finding it very hard to think straight. He was finding it very hard to focus on any one thing at a time; especially unhelpful were his eyes, dilated as they were and refusing to come into clarity. 

He could hear, more than see, Gabriel chattering on about something. Aziraphale kept making quiet answers, looking anxiously at him the whole time. Crowley hated that look, especially now. That great bloody Pidgeon was making his angel upset again. He had to stop it, he had to comfort Aziraphale. 

Gabriel put his foot onto Crowley’s back, lined up with the spine; the small amount of pressure helped to focus a little more, but Crowley still wasn’t sure what he could do. When more pressure was applied, his wings forced themselves free of their own will, and Crowley had the brilliant idea to start flapping them. He had to distract the archangel.

He failed to distract the archangel.

While Gabriel was pulling his wings out, probably saying threatening things to Aziraphale, Crowley flapped as hard as he possibly could; desperately trying to knock Gabriel off his balance. When this failed, Gabriel used the foot that had been pressing onto his back to give Crowley a good kick to his side, causing the serpent to groan and dribble a little more blood onto the floor.

He’d have to buy angel a new carpet when this was all over.

 _Focus_.

Aziraphale was saying something ridiculous about trading places; something which naturally Crowley would never allow to happen. His angel only deserved the finest of treatments; the softest beds, the lightest touches. Crowley tried to tell Aziraphale this, but only managed a whine/gurgle, and a small shake of his head. 

Crowley realized about two seconds before the action that Gabriel was going to twist his wing; the demon didn’t have the strength, but he was much too stubborn to give Gabriel a win. Muscles, tendons, and bone ground against each other. Feathers rubbed and pulled free. Something in his Core snapped. He felt it in his chest, rather than his back, as the Archangel finally won their tug-of-war and twisted his left wing cleanly from its socket. He probably said something too, but Crowley was well past understanding. All he felt was pain, all he heard was ringing. He saw ancient stars swirling around his field of vision, briefly reminding him of the Beginning, long before any of this pain and fear and stupidity. 

Another sting brought him back into reality once more; something much larger than the needle and going all the way through his body and into the wooden floorboards below. He hissed at this new sensation, pain and fear and adrenaline on overdrive as his corporation ran out of steam and his Demonic Core bled itself dry. 

_He was dying_. 

Aziraphale’s soft hands cupped his face. 

Aziraphale’s beautiful lips kissed his hair. 

Aziraphale’s strong arms riPPED THE BLOODY SWORD OUT.

Aziraphale said something, as if to apologize for Gabriel’s beatings. As if that could ever possibly be his fault. The angel pulled him awkwardly into his arms. He was crying.

“You’re not silly,” Crowley said, giving the best smile he could. “You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect. Best of the lot.” it was so hard to breathe. Crowley didn't even know if he was making the sounds of the words or just mouthing them. He thought back to that first meeting. Seeing Aziraphale on the wall of the garden. How beautiful he’d been then. How beautiful he was now. 

Crowley was so past exhaustion he’d have to think of a new word. He almost didn’t hear Aziraphale’s quiet plea: “Don’t go.” He wanted so badly to reach up and wipe those tears away. He’d tear all of Heaven apart for making the most perfect, most beautiful, most holy, and most loving angel cry. He just needed a touch of a nap first. 

“I won’t. I’ll be right here angel.” And with the Angel holding his hand, he let himself drift off into a sea of ancient stars. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is... awake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE! I'm so sorry guys I did NOT intend this to take two months. Life just kinda ... happened. Also I've added ANOTHER chapter so the finale will be next time, BUT that chapter is already halfway written. It was starting to get too long for my taste and I didn't want anyone to have to wait any longer. I hope you enjoy this little interlude. As always please feel free to scream your thoughts at me here or on Tumblr! I love you!!!

Crowley awoke in a bed. A rather comfortable one, he had to admit; although there was hardly any comparison to how he had fallen asleep, tucked securely in Aziraphale’s arms.

_ Angel _ .

He shot upright, and fought the disorientating dizziness that came with the motion. This room wasn’t Aziraphale’s backroom, and most certainly wasn’t the bed in the flat above the bookshop. Crowley should know; he’d napped –  _ among other things _ – in both of those spots several times, and in several corporeal forms. 

Ok. So this wasn’t  _ Angel’s _ flat. And it most certainly wasn’t  _ his _ flat either. The room was too homey to fit his clean and moderately-uncomfortable aesthetic. The bed was an overstuffed down mattress set high off the floor on an oak frame. The pillows were various; two dense and two softer, all nested around him as if to keep him from rolling away. The sheets and quilted comforter all tucked over him; material he recognized but couldn’t name. Crowley felt rather like an ill child, tucked in to battle out a nasty fever. And in a foreign room, that couldn’t have been good. 

Crowley adjusted to a better sitting position; moving a pillow behind him to lean against it. He tested the air with a quick flick of his tongue but couldn’t smell anything. 

He had to admit, his memories were a little foggy. Maybe he  _ had _ developed a fever, and Aziraphale had brought him to that witch-girl instead of trying to miracle it away. The bedroom would certainly fit a witch-girl. There were books in all sorts of languages; even several very dead ones. There were light-catching crystals on the windowsill, creating a little rainbow on the floor. Various bottles of – probably – oils littered a desk on his right.

The realization hit him like bricks smashing a window in his brain –  _ he couldn’t smell anything. _

Nothing. The room didn’t smell like dust or perfumes or incense. Rooms that  _ looked _ the way this one did, all homey and cluttered, should smell like  _ something. _ Scents may not last forever but they certainly  _ lingered _ for a while. Which meant something was  _ wrong _ with this room. 

Crowley took a deep, steadying breath through his nose, and rose carefully from the bed. Then, he took a second deep breath from his mouth, trying to hit as many scent glands with as much “air” as possible. 

So there was  _ something _ after all.  _ Ozone _ .

Crowley flicked his tongue again, more in frustration this time. Ozone smell was never a good smell, nor a good sign. Ozone meant Angels; Angels who didn’t smell like old cologne and cinnamon cocoa and warm buttery pastries. Angels who caused hurt and heartbreak and pain – and a second, much more painful realization hit. 

_ The sword, the blood, the pain, Aziraphale _ .

Crowley did his absolute very best  _ not _ to vomit in that moment, remembering just  _ how _ and  _ why _ he had fallen asleep – he did NOT want to think about the paradox of his being dead and yet being in a room right now,  _ thank you _ . But he  _ had _ been with Aziraphale, in that very scary, very painful moment. And now he couldn’t smell Aziraphale at all, he was in a strange house that smelled like ozone and had no idea what was going on. 

Well, the door to the room was closed, but when tested opened easily. The accompanying hall was bland and windowless, with a handful of other, also shut, doors and leading off to a staircase. Crowley briefly entertained exploring the other doors; he was naturally curious, sue him, and he had been presented with enough closed doors in his past to want to skip them all now. 

And yet, there was Aziraphale. Aziraphale would be waiting for him - somewhere, probably - and he had to make sure his soft, oft-featherbrained Angel wasn’t hurt as well. He had to make sure he hadn’t lost everything all over again.

Crowley slunk as quietly as possible down the hall, thankful for the plush carpet beneath his feet muffling his footsteps. He continued to test the air and continued to smell faint whiffs of ozone, but otherwise nothing. The top of the stairs gave no clues either; no sounds nor smells about the rest of this strange and cozy little home.

At the bottom of the staircase, he paused to look around. Obviously, this whole little cottage had been arranged for _his_ benefit; it would probably disappear into aether once more when he left it. 

_ If he left it _ .

_ If he was  _ **_allowed_ ** _ to leave it. _

The thought slithered up his spine with an uncomfortable chill. He couldn’t be on earth anymore, given the lack of windows to show what was happening outside and the lack of smells to determine who would be near. His last memory  _ was _ of his own death. Was there actually some weird afterlife sectioned off for beings like him? If there was, why had  _ he _ been allowed in? He was a  _ demon _ after all. 

There was a kitchen to his left, equally littered with cozy things as the bedroom had been, that led into a den and off into more of the house. But to his right was a surprisingly sparse sitting room, and  _ this _ room had a sliding glass door that  _ finally _ showed him a glimpse of the outside. Because Crowley was becoming a touch frustrated with this facade of a house, he rushed this little door, pulling the handle open with abandon and stepping out into the night. 

His haste caught him off guard as the illusion broke; the cloudy night-time picture the sliding door had depicted opened to reveal a vast emptiness of space, painted with watercolors of blues and magentas and trillions upon unfathomable trillions of stars. The painting swirled around him, singing to Crowley of time lost achingly long ago when he had painted them, and taught them the songs. Cloudy nebulas and dancing planets sparkled and spun; some coming closer and others brushing farther away. And as his eyes finally pulled away, he noticed the Heart of everything before him. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a Conversation, does some thinking, and gets a bit muddy. Lots of healing happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it!! Whooo!!! I hope you all like this chapter; God was VERY hard to write, but I'm really satisfied with how it came out. This is how I tend to think of God when I try to picture Her/Him, both in real life and within the Good Omens Verse. Please let me know what you liked/didn't like/want to see more of. Getting back into writing has really helped me lately, so if you have prompts or want to chat feel free to seek me out on tumblr @warcats-cat or in the comments! I hope you have a lovely day <3

A Figure sat at the table in front of him. Neither tall nor short; one might go so far as to call the Figure’s body nondescript; average. But the Figure’s skin color changed each time he blinked; sometimes shifting only tones, and others shifting severely, from deep night-black to near translucent white, and any shade fathomable in between. 

Her face was different; and of course it was Her, Mother and Creator of all things. The world itself was made in Her image, and her face constantly warped and changed from cheetah to Man to falcon to lizard to bulbous-eyed insect. Sometimes She seemed human, and yet there were entire cosmos swirling in Her eyes. Her hair was woven of nebulae full of colors only shrimps and unnamed creatures could see. And here She sat, at a rusted garden table on an expanse of perfectly kept grass, surrounded by unending cosmos and space exploding around Her like fireworks. 

Crowley felt his knees quake, just slightly, and deep pain in the pit of his stomach that  _ almost _ pushed tears out his eyes. He was standing there, six thousand years after the World had begun, many thousand more before time had been invented, standing in front of his  _ Mother _ . He swallowed the word hoarsely down his throat, and stood silently staring at her. What could he possibly say? So many times he had screamed and raged and waxed poetically, and yet before Her he could think of nothing. 

“How did you sleep?” She asked him. Her voice wrapped around him in cacophonies of sound; waves on a lake and windstorms and braying dogs and laughing children. Her voice touched his soul more than Her words hit his ears. Her ever-changing face made no move to form words with a mouth. 

“How did- I- what?” he managed to respond. 

Amusement was clear in Her eyes, and she motioned for him to join Her at the little table. “I asked how well you slept. It has been some time now. And yet, it feels like nothing.”

Crowley couldn’t really process what She was saying, sitting down in the open chair without thinking; so he opted to start unpacking his own questions instead; “Why all the theatrics? What happened to Burning Bushes and Weeping Statues?” He waved his hand vaguely around, trying to indicate everything about the exploding sky above and the wavering forms She had chosen. 

She did smile then; “You have never feared what I Am. You have always known Me to be as ever-changing as yourself. I made you in My Image, as I did all things. You look upon Me and see yourself.”

“Glad to know I’m as abundantly confusing and theatrical as I try to be. And cool, I guess…” he muttered, mostly to himself, although he knew She would hear anything. She could hear his thoughts, if She became so inclined; She didn’t out of respect for his autonomy. 

“I’m very glad you see Me as cool.” She said, with amusement dancing in the waterfall of Her voice. “Perhaps, however, something more simple will be fitting to our conversation.” With little more effort than a thought, Her shape solidified; settled into the last thing Crowley wanted to see Her look like.

“You find his face most comforting to look at,” She said, in Aziraphale’s voice. Aziraphale’s warm, bright blue eyes stared right into Crowley’s soul, and his face was turned into a calm, contented smile.

“That’s low, and You know it.” Crowley snarled. “Aziraphale’s got nothing to do with- whatever this is.” He was sure of it. And yes, Crowley was wholeheartedly ready to defend Aziraphale from God Herself, if the need arose. But there was a special kind of  _ wrong _ feeling that came with talking to  _ Her _ while She wore the angel’s face. 

“Aziraphale has everything to do with this conversation.” She responded, and smiled just a bit brighter in the cheeky way Aziraphale did when he did something he thought particularly clever. (Or when his puppy-eyes worked just right on Crowley, and he knew it, and he knew Crowley knew it. Bastard.) “In fact, we’ve had several conversations concerning that  _ particular _ son of Mine.” She willed a delicate cup of tea into existence, as if to further support what She was saying, and reached to take a sip.

“We don’t have  _ conversationsss _ .” Crowley hissed, beginning to lose his composure. “You haven’t spoken to  _ anyone _ in over ssix millennia! Not to mention, Your other kids, Gabriel and his blasted lot, have been bullying Aziraphale for probably that long too, and You never did  _ anything _ about it! So pick a different face! You can't have that one!” Yes, it was absolutely petulant, but Crowley had  _ died _ hadn’t he? Aziraphale knew he was gone  _ forever _ . Arguing with God could only get him more dead at this point. 

She didn’t even have the decency to look upset at Crowley’s outburst; openly beaming in Aziraphale's form before switching once more into the image of an old woman; looking small and gentle, and very well wrinkled with laugh lines and frown lines, but not frail or ghost-like. 

Crowley huffed, leaning his chair back onto its hind legs, and crossed his arms. He sorely wished he had a pair of sunglasses, but he doubted they would make a difference in the end. “ _ Thank _ you.” he muttered. 

“So. How did you sleep?” She asked a third time. She folded both hands on the table and watched Crowley intently. 

“‘Was fine, I guess. Not really sleep.” He responded after a few moments. “Why’s’it matter? Where am I anyway?” Crowley knew he was taking the bait, but he couldn’t help it. There was just too much going on in his brain now; questions as numerous as the stars dancing around above him, and multiplying faster than city rats in the underground. 

“You died.” She responded, as if it was obvious. He rolled his eyes and leaned back further in the chair, nodding just slightly as if he could make her continue by staring. She smiled again, a great grin like a mother trying not to laugh (which, he supposed, she was). “I pulled you from the aether and reformed you. You are needed still on Earth.” Her face changed then. “Your love needs you.” 

“What do You care what he needs?" He spat, putting as much venom as he could behind the words. "Since _when_ do you care what anyone needs!?"

Her face fell, not all the way into sorrow, but into passive sadness; and Crowley felt a little more satisfied. “I have never forgiven Myself for casting you away.” She responded, quietly. He lost balance of the chair, and it rocked forwards and threw him against the table; on which he was barely able to catch himself. 

“Huh?” he responded eloquently, staring at her without anger for the first time. 

“I know how My children behave.” She said, adjusting to sit up straighter, and looking into his eyes with open sorrow. “It is the cost of Free Will; I cannot force them to behave at all times. And I know that in My absence, they have become jaded and angry. But I also knew that you would never be comfortable remaining in Heaven.” Her lips twitched into a small smile. “And I knew that you and Aziraphale needed each other. That you could only meet if you were both able to be among the Humans.” 

“So you threw me a billion miles down into a boiling pond.” Crowley snapped. 

“Would you rather it have been him?” She asked.

“That’s not fair.”

“You have told Me, many times, that I am not fair.” She smiled once more. “Aziraphale would not thrive in Heaven, but he would be able to subvert it. And he had you. You would never have lasted, and I know that you know this in your own heart. You have thought it many times.” 

“Fine then. I Fell. I met Aziraphale. I fell in love with him and we cancelled the Apocalypse and Gabriel wanted one anyway so I died for it. And you pulled me out of being scattered in the aether so we could have a chat about my nap habit?” He was seething, just a bit, mostly because he couldn’t understand. Did She bring him back just to make him watch over his Angel for eternity? Was She going to scatter him again once the conversation was over? Was there a point to anything he said?

“No,” she answered, quieting his spinning thoughts, “I brought you back because, as I have  _ been saying _ , your love needs you still. You have both done so well; you have learned empathy and love, you have cared for and guided the humans as I wished.  _ Yes _ , even in your temptations. And no other angels or demons will ever understand. I need you to continue being their voices in Heaven and Hell; speaking for them when My other children on  _ both _ sides refuse to learn.”

“Ok, so why not just send me back?” Crowley asked, becoming genuinely curious. She  _ almost _ made sense.  _ Almost _ . And yet her face turned sad at his question. 

“You needed rest after being reformed. I’m afraid We will have to wait until Aziraphale joins us. But it won’t be long now.” She said, in Her frustrating, baffling way. 

“What do you  _ mean _ , ‘won’t be long now’? He can’t die! He’s supposed to be fine! Sitting in his blasted little bookshop, drinking cocoa from the joke mug I got him for Christmas, and arguing with humans over whether or not the title ‘shop’ entitled them to buy things! He  _ can’t  _ die!” His last exclamation was desperate. Aziraphale suffering in any way was one-hundred percent unthinkable and unacceptable in any way.

“He will not be in pain.” She replied, as if that made any difference. “As I said, you needed more time than I originally expected to recover. Your love is lost in his grief. He is coming to you now.” She looked up to the stars and became quiet. 

“You can’t let him fall.” Crowley said, almost pleading. “He’s too good. They’ll eat him alive and I won’t be able to protect him.”

God then had the audacity to look at him as if he had three heads. “Why would I send him to Fall? He has followed my instructions and my wishes to the letter; save one small incident with a sword.” She grinned. “No, he is just being reckless. So, I have decided to wait for him to come here. Then I will allow you both to decide together where you would like to reside, and you may go freely.” 

“Ok…” Crowley chewed on his thoughts carefully, trying to select the most pressing and relevant of them all. “So… what am I to do in the meantime? Nap some more?” 

Her smile only grew, as if this was the question She had been working towards through the entire conversation. “Well, My realm is quite expansive, but rather blank after all. I believe I could do with a Garden.”

* * *

Some indefinable amount of time later, Crowley turned to see his beloved’s shocked face staring at him, elbow deep in mud. And he ran to scoop that blessed-damned-fussy angel into a long-overdue embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm so sorry!!!! I love you!!!


End file.
